by Amy Myers
‘So you’re still here,’ said Sarah Baker grimly.
‘Yes,’ Georgia agreed, offering a smile as well as a pound coin.
A pause. ‘What’s it to you, if I might ask? You’re not from round these parts.’
Georgia could answer that truthfully. ‘I talked to Damien Trent; he was interested in the Fernbourne Five and so are my father and I.’
‘Troublemakers,’ Sarah muttered. ‘Like them newspaper people. Some folks like stirring up trouble. Why can’t you let things be?’
‘Unfinished business has to be settled sooner or later.’
‘Then we can do it for ourselves.’ The till shut with a clang.
‘With rough music?’ Georgia asked, perhaps foolishly. She wanted the Bakers’ cooperation and this was hardly the way to achieve it.
Sarah glared at her, then turned away. The conversation was over, and so, cursing herself for mishandling the situation, Georgia retreated to the pub to collect what remained of her common sense. She ordered a coffee from Bob, but to her surprise it was brought to her by Emma Baker five minutes later.
Even wearing a white hat and enveloping overalls Emma looked both stunning and yet unaware of it. To have her working in the King’s Head must be a feather in Adam’s cap in the battle for her favours with Sean, and Georgia wondered whether Sean knew of this cosy arrangement.
‘Do you usually work here,’ she asked, ‘or are you just helping out today?’
The lovely face looked genuinely pleased at her interest. ‘It’s my gap year. I’m filling in here before uni. I’m saving up to go on my travels after Christmas.’
‘I saw your picture in the newspaper. It must be hard to have had the police hanging around so much. Unsettling for the village.’
Emma looked troubled. ‘Damien was nice. It was awful the way he died.’
Georgia seized her opening. ‘Did he talk to you about why he was here?’
Emma looked at her sharply and giggled. ‘Mum says you’re all nose.’
‘Nothing wrong in that,’ Georgia rejoined cheerfully. ‘If people aren’t curious about what’s going on around them, all sorts of ghastly things happen unnoticed. Journalism was a good job for Damien.’ She held her breath and sure enough there came a prompt reply. Thank heavens the pub was not crowded and no curious eyes were on them.
‘He wasn’t a journalist. He said he might be some kind of relation of mine. I asked Dad, and he said Damien asked about a Joe Baker, but the only Joe he knew didn’t have any children, and he was long gone anyway.’ A frown clouded her brow, as though this hadn’t quite satisfied her. Nor did it Georgia. She felt there might be more to be learned from the Bakers. The difficulty would be in wheedling it out of them.
‘Did Damien mention Alwyn Field?’
‘The poet?’ Emma asked with unexpected interest. ‘No. Field killed himself over his love for Elfie Lane. I’m going to read English Lit,’ she explained proudly. ‘Romantic, isn’t it? Him and Elfie and Gavin Hunt. A cosy threesome.’
‘Like you, Adam and Sean,’ Georgia pointed out, amused.
Emma blushed. ‘Mum says let them fight it out and don’t get involved. Brother Nick doesn’t like either of them, so he says the same.’
‘But what do you say?’
She shrugged. ‘Sean’s good at the sex.’
Georgia blinked. There were probably only eighteen years between Emma and herself in age, but a lot seemed to have changed in attitude if not in emotions. She hoped this was just an attitude that Emma decided to strike, but she wouldn’t put any money on it.
‘Do the words “rough music” mean anything to you?’ she asked idly.
Emma looked puzzled. ‘Don’t think so.’ A pause, then too quickly, ‘I’d better get back.’
Molly Sandford’s office was in Clapham in a tall terraced house overlooking the Common, and it was also her home, judging by the bells on the door. Georgia discovered that Molly was one half of a partnership, Sandford & Petter, but today when she reached the first floor reception there was no sign of the Petter, only a receptionist and closed doors. Georgia had decided to follow up her suggestion that she tackle Molly as soon as she could, albeit with strict instructions from Luke not to trespass on his domain. She had not been amused, and told him so. She needed no such reminders.
One of the closed doors opened and Molly emerged from her office, all gracious smiles and smart black suit. To Georgia it was a reminder that she was playing the game on someone else’s turf, but she could give as good as she got. Molly’s black suit was matched by her own dark green one.
‘Luke told me about your visit,’ Georgia began, as she followed Molly into her office. Victorian spacious dimensions, with ultra-modern décor, she discovered. Not her own cup of tea at all. ‘Sorry I wasn’t there.’
Molly looked amused, the curls of her dark hair softening the basic toughness of her face. ‘Ah, so I deduce that Marsh and Daughter is definitely thinking of a book. I assumed your fascination with the Five couldn’t be entirely disinterested. What I can’t understand,’ she said, waving Georgia to a seat, ‘is what you think merits investigation.’
‘Alwyn Field’s suicide and events pertaining to it,’ Georgia said bluntly.
Molly sighed. ‘By events, I presume you mean his plagiarism of Roy Sandford’s work in The Flight of the Soul.’
‘That’s one issue.’
‘I can’t see what it has to do with me,’ Molly said, frowning. ‘Luke must have told you we’re planning straight reprints, which, even if you did concoct some kind of story for a book, wouldn’t be affected.’
Georgia swallowed back anger. Some day she’d get her own back for that word ‘concoct’, but not today. ‘Are you including The Flight of the Soul under Roy’s name?’
Molly’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yes, unless you have evidence to the contrary. If you don’t, we’re wasting time. Even if there is some kind of story about that, or anything else to do with the Five, the hard truth is that you would be second in the field with your publication. Fernbourne Arts Centre opens next summer, which is when we will publish the reprints. It doesn’t leave you a lot of time to investigate, write a book on the results and get it published, does it? Whatever it said, you’d lose sales to us if you published later.’
‘Not whatever,’ Georgia retorted coolly. ‘Not if it reveals and proves an entirely different story to yours.’
Molly flushed with annoyance. Nevertheless she sounded amused when she replied, ‘I do believe you’re threatening me. That would be premature, until you’ve found your so-called story. Which you won’t, because there isn’t one.’
This wasn’t good. Georgia was puzzled as to why Molly was defending her wicket quite so vigorously. ‘We’re focussing on Alwyn Field,’ she pointed out, ‘and on whether there’s any doubt about his suicide. Even if there is, it needn’t necessarily affect your interests. We wouldn’t be invalidating the work of the whole group.’
‘With most principals dead, you could indulge in pure conjecture.’
‘If you’ve read our books, you must know that we don’t,’ Georgia rejoined, struggling to keep her temper.
Unexpectedly, Molly laughed. ‘Let’s call a truce. Why don’t we work together? We create a market for you, and you follow on with your little book in due course. We could sell it at the manor.’
A Greek bearing gifts? And ‘little book’? ‘I doubt if that would work.’ Georgia tried to sound reasonable, although she was beginning to dislike Molly intensely. ‘If we find evidence that the plagiarism accusation against Field was unfounded, it would throw a spanner in the works if you’ve just republished it under Roy’s name. But it wouldn’t in itself affect the question of whether Alwyn was murdered or committed suicide. The issue was settled by the time he killed himself.’
‘Presumably the depression caused through the slur on his reputation would continue?’ Molly whipped back. ‘Besides, there’s darling Elfie. That’s reason enough for suicide.’
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��I agree both dovetail with long-term depression,’ Georgia said fairly. ‘And Birdie doesn’t seem to have queried the verdict at the time. Nevertheless the open verdict at the inquest suggests a query in itself.’
Molly seemed disconcerted by this objectivity. ‘I suppose you’re right. But Alwyn wasn’t doing too well all round. I think his father was supporting both him and Birdie. My grandfather was Roy’s brother, and I remember his talking about Alwyn as a wimp compared with Roy. Roy was the great white hope all round. His parents went through an awful time when he died. After the bombing at the Café de Paris, the bodies were naturally in a mess, and some couldn’t be properly identified at first. Roy’s was one of them. Biggin Hill had to testify, so did Roy’s parents and chums, and they found scraps of uniform and so forth. Can you imagine the trauma his parents and siblings went through?’
Yes, Georgia could. Only too well; a tremor of sympathy ran through her.
‘How well known was Roy at the time of his death?’ Georgia asked.
‘Better known than Alwyn. There were two collections of his poems, of which the second, Verses to Dorinda, was outstanding. Alwyn had had one published by a small press, Of Loves and Landscapes, and quite a few singly published in those literary magazines that used to come and go in the thirties.’
‘Did they write in similar styles? I’ve only read Alwyn’s.’ Peter had managed to get hold of the disputed Flight of the Soul and A Mourning in Spring in which ‘The Piper’ appeared.
Molly considered this. ‘I’m no literary critic, but I’d say not unalike. The subjects were much the same: love and war, frustrations and partings, the sense of a dying era, and nature’s influence on man. The main difference was that Alwyn had a great love of the countryside, but Roy was a townie at heart, despite living at Shaw Cottage from about 1938 onwards. His parents lived in west London.’
Georgia hesitated, then decided to go for it. ‘What’s your personal take on the plagiarism? There seem to be varying opinions as to how far Alwyn was to blame.’
‘Guilty as hell,’ Molly said promptly, then grinned. ‘But I would say that, wouldn’t I? When The Flight of the Soul was published, Roy’s family never saw it. Why should they? The book had Alwyn’s name on it. As Clemence has probably told you, it was only after the war that Gavin found Roy’s manuscript drafts. Alwyn said Roy must have copied them from his own poems for reference but Gavin couldn’t believe that. It was far too weak, and Alwyn couldn’t even produce his own manuscript. And –’ Molly glanced at Georgia – ‘before you say Gavin was prejudiced because Elfie loved Alwyn, forget it. I remember Gavin myself, and one thing that everyone agreed on, even Elfie, was that he could divorce his personal feelings from his professional judgement.
‘It was only because of the tiny margin of doubt that it was a genuine mix-up because of the two minor poems already published under Alwyn’s name,’ Molly continued, ‘that the Sandfords were persuaded not to go to court. But naturally it never was reprinted – but now it’s going to be, with any luck.’
‘And so Roy is to be the unsung hero of the Five?’
Molly shrugged. ‘Yes. He deserves it. My private view is that Gavin was a stuffed shirt, Alwyn was a creep, Elfie a moonstruck goose, Clemence a solid pudding. Roy was the one who lit them up. Sorry if this shocks you,’ she added ironically, ‘but you could say the same of any group of artists, I daresay. A case of the whole being mightier than the sum of the parts.’
‘Yet you judge Roy as an individual.’
‘Justified,’ Molly retorted. ‘If you look at his work, Roy had the touch of genius about him. The others followed in his wake.’
Georgia didn’t agree, thinking of Clemence, but now was not the time to say so. ‘Did the group have a mission like the Pre-Raphaelites, or was it just a group of artists drawn together by proximity?’
‘Neither. My PR slant is that they believed in independent personal choice, hence Matthew’s The Freedom Seekers. You remember the famous Oxford debate of 1933 that in no circumstances would the house fight for king and country? Roy voted for the motion, and it was carried as you know, but that didn’t stop either him or many of the others joining up when war came. The Fernbourne Five didn’t believe in being tied down by majority opinion. Gavin fought in the Spanish Civil War, and it was after that that they started the group, when his first novel was published. Clemence has always stalked through life in her own plodding way, and Elfie seemed determined to be different by wistfully floating surrealistically over everything. So that,’ she concluded, ‘is to be the mission message for the arts centre posters. Any comments?’
Georgia had quite a few, such as why, if she was so cynical about the Five, was she a trustee? Self-gain? Probably, and why not, since it was her livelihood?
‘By the way,’ Molly said as Georgia was leaving, ‘did Luke tell you about my new project?’
‘Naturally not. It would break boundaries.’
‘How frustrating for you,’ Molly murmured. ‘There’s fortunately no such embargo on my telling you.’
Georgia restrained herself from a tart reply. ‘I’d be interested to know.’
‘I’m sure you will. It’s the first complete biography of Roy Sandford. I’m calling it Bright Flame.’
Instantly, Georgia was back at that tombstone in the churchyard. ‘The bright flame of the Five, snuffed out …’ She recalled Damien’s words clearly.
‘Did Damien Trent come to see you?’ she asked so suddenly that she hit an unexpected bullseye.
Molly flushed. ‘Who?’ The wrong answer. Molly would surely know who Trent was. She recovered quickly, however. ‘Of course, that man who was killed in Fernbourne,’ she continued. ‘Yes, he did come here. He wanted information about the Five, and Alwyn Field.’
‘Why choose you, not Matthew?’ Georgia knew she had her on the run now and there was a split-second pause before Molly replied.
‘I agented the reprints of Gavin’s novels. I think the publishers put Trent in touch with me.’
Nice one, Georgia thought. She tried one or two more questions, but it was obvious that Molly wasn’t going to budge from the familiar Fernbourne Five story. Even if it wasn’t the truth – let alone the whole truth. For all her protestations, Molly was keeping something back.
‘I thought you might like to get a taste of Fernbourne,’ Georgia said innocently, as she and Luke settled in at a corner table in the King’s Head that evening. ‘After all, you’ll probably be dealing with the manor next year.’
Luke ignored this. ‘How did you get on with Ms Sandford?’
‘I can understand why she’s a Ms.’
He laughed. ‘So are you,’ he pointed out, and she could have kicked herself for playing into his hands. But he let her off the hook. ‘There was a short marriage, Molly told me, and now she prefers her maiden name. So answer my question.’
‘I would sum it up as everything will be fine provided Peter and I toe the party line.’
‘Is that difficult?’
‘It could be, if the truth clashes with it. And what’s this about a biography of Roy Sandford?’ She was still mulling over the significance of Damien’s visit to Molly. Her explanation was possible, but it didn’t explain Molly’s obvious confusion, and her not having mentioned it before. Did Mike Gilroy know, for instance?
‘A biography is overdue, so Molly says,’ Luke replied. ‘He’s the forgotten one of the five, so it would sell. I gather Molly’s got a new slant on him. It could bring a lot of publicity if we play our cards right and Molly’s well placed to do that.’
Georgia was puzzled. What new slant could that be? ‘I’ve got it!’ she exclaimed.
‘I love it when your eyes light up like that.’
‘Don’t distract me. It’s Birdie, isn’t it? She was in love with Roy, and not much is made of that in Matthew’s book.’
‘And he loved her, according to Molly. Alwyn stood between them.’
‘How could he?’
‘He lived in th
e same house. He could have barricaded the bedroom doors, locked them in their rooms.’
‘Very funny.’ She returned to the fray. ‘Is the plagiarism being fitted into this new story? For instance, Alwyn was so mad at Roy for making eyes at his sister, then threatening to deprive him of his housekeeper, that he pinched his poems.’
‘Could be,’ Luke said, looking more interested now. ‘She didn’t tell me much, just rambled on about PR. There’s so much known about Gavin, Elfie and Alwyn that Roy and Birdie got overlooked. So Molly can do a great publicity job at the opening of the manor.’
‘With Birdie’s personal appearance,’ Georgia said. ‘Of course. Birdie’s own story of her own love affair from her own lips released to the world courtesy of TV and the Fernbourne Trust at the wonderful new arts centre. Books on sale right now.’
‘I like the sound of the last bit,’ Luke said, looking hopefully for a waiter.
When one finally came, it wasn’t Emma, and the pub was clearly under pressure. She could see that Luke was beginning to get itchy about this, and so now was not the time to ask him whether Marsh & Daughter’s book might fit into this glorious sales bonanza.
Service continued to be slow, and it was past eleven o’clock before their dessert arrived, courtesy of a harassed Doreen Laycock.
‘Where’s Emma this evening?’ Georgia asked sympathetically.
‘You tell me,’ was the grim answer.
Even as Doreen spoke, Georgia could hear a commotion outside their window with a crowd of youths, then a girl’s scream. In a trice Bob Laycock was out from behind the bar and rushing outside with Luke and several other men following in his wake. Rather more cautiously Georgia did too, by which time the action had moved round to the side of the pub, and by the time she reached them the situation was getting ugly. She’d seen Doreen seize the phone so presumably police were on their way. Meanwhile Adam Laycock was pinned against the wall by a hoodie whom she recognized as Sean, and a group of youths was circling round, including one she thought she could identify as Emma’s brother Nick. Emma was screeching at Sean to leave Adam alone.